


Home for a Rest

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Blackouts, Consent Discussion, Emetophobia, M/M, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night before, Trailcutter couldn't begin to imagine the mornings after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CavalierConvoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/gifts).



> To CavalierConvoy, who's been my friend for what's going on half our lives.
> 
> Listen. When you suck your loved ones down into sad gay robot hell with you, you at LEAST owe them some good fic by way of apology. Especially at Yule Solstice. Blessed Yule, everyone.
> 
> Warnings: This is supposed to be a fluffy story, but it was important to me that I not romanticize Trailcutter’s behaviour. So: Alcohol, alcohol use, alcohol abuse, addiction, alcoholism, self-destructive behaviours, rationalization, denial, being drunk, passing out, emetophobia, feeling sick, self-inflicted illness, loneliness, and a look into Trailcutter’s mindset from the inside. Also, in the interests of not romanticizing Megatron’s behaviour: violence, physical modification without consent of recipient, past instances of physical assault, violent impulses, violent thoughts, violent fantasies, anger, anger control issues, and guilt.
> 
> This story is mostly consensual, with the exception of Trailcutter initiating touch while intoxicated (unable to consent) and without asking permission of the recipient, and with the canon act of Megatron forcibly engaging Trailcutter’s FIM chip without permission. There are also discussions involving consent and a mention of the existence of noncon.
> 
> Could easily be in continuity with "One for the Road." 
> 
> Named for the Spirit of the West song of the sane name.
> 
> You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best  
> I've been gone for a week, I've been drunk since I left  
> And these so called vacations will soon be my death  
> I'm so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest...

_Prior to Issue 27, after the launch of the Lost Light._

Trailcutter felt his fuel tank lurch unexpectedly.

 _Huh_. It seemed a little early in the evening for his tank to turn sour, but when the fuel in his gut swirled again, Trailcutter knew he was done for the night. He’d nurse the rest of the drink in his glass—no reason to be _wasteful_ —but he’d stretch it out over a couple of hours, milking his buzz as long as possible and giving his insides a chance to cope with the contents they already had inside them. 

He absolutely wouldn’t be ordering any more drinks. People who asked for more when they were already feeling rough were people with _problems_. Trailcutter wasn’t one of _them_.

Trailcutter knew exactly who _those_ mechs were. They were people like Jackpot, who’d guzzle cocktails until he blacked out and had to be bodily dragged out of Swerve’s by Mainframe. They were people like Chromedome, curled up alone in his room, drinking and weeping, trying to drown his grief in engex. They were people like Tailgate, who had absolutely no idea of how much they could handle, and ended up purging their tanks into a bucket in the corner of the room when they tore past their limit and just kept going until their frames protested, suddenly and violently. Well, Trailcutter knew how much he could handle, and he didn’t fall or pass out in public, and he definitely didn’t cry into his mug every night. Trailcutter was just a mech who liked to unwind with a couple of drinks. That was all. Nothing unusual to see here. Just an ordinary mech having a couple of drinks.

And that’s what he’d been doing tonight. Just a few drinks with friends. Except that right now the stools to both sides of him were empty, and the edges of the counter were a little fuzzier than usual. 

Trailcutter looked up. He saw nothing but a static-starred riot of smeared colours. All of a sudden Swerve’s felt uncomfortably hot. Trailcutter shook his head and almost fell off his stool. 

He caught his balance just in time and lowered his head to the top of the bar. The metal felt cool and pleasant against his forehead. He forced himself to take slow, deep pulls of air into his intakes. 

_Okay. Okay. Don’t move too fast. Sit up slowly now, so you don’t look sick._

He didn’t really want to sit up. It felt good to rest on the bar, and he wished he could stay exactly where he was. He knew that if he did, though, sooner or later someone would see him and start asking awkward questions. If it was someone like Blaster, he’d be asked if he was okay, in a very concerned voice. If it was someone like Riptide, he’d be asked if he was totally fendered yet, in a voice laden with cruel amusement. Either way, Trailcutter would have to tell them he was fine in a way that they would believe, and it was a lot harder to be convincing if he didn’t carefully enunciate each word to stop it from slurring. It would be easier to get up than to answer their questions. Trailcutter forced himself to steel his nerves, brace both hands on the bar, and shove himself back upright.

An instant later, Trailcutter felt himself tilting sideways to the left. Suddenly the floor wasn’t angled quite the way he thought it was, and he realized that he was losing his balance. He stretched out his arm, catching himself on the barstool. Trailcutter carefully made his way along the bar, moving his hand from stool to stool, letting the seats keep him oriented while he pretended to be walking along like any ordinary mech would.

Trailcutter held his breath for the five steps to the door, but he made it without even a wobble—until Huffer walked in and brushed against Trailcutter as he passed, disorienting him and destroying his precarious balance. Trailcutter lowered his right shoulder and caught himself on the doorframe before he fell. His shoulder hurt from the impact, but Trailcutter shrugged it off. He leaned casually against the doorframe, as any mech might. Nothing unusual at all about a mech wanting to stop and chill for a while. 

Trailcutter made a show of sweeping his gaze around the bar, as if searching for a friend, but nobody was looking in his direction and there really wasn’t anyone he wanted to say good night to, anyway, particularly not when his tank turned over again. The last thing he needed right now was to have to feign small talk when all he really wanted was to get back to his hab and sleep this off. It was a _good_ thing that nobody missed him right now. It _was_.

He breathed in the cool air of the corridor and, bracing his hand against the wall, began the long walk back to his hab suite.

Trailcutter wished Hoist had chosen a hab closer to Swerve’s. Their shared suite was on the starboard side of the ship, while Swerve’s bar was on the port side. At least it wasn’t all the way in the _Lost Light’s_ stern, the way Grapple’s hab was. Trailcutter would never make it back to his berth if he’d been sharing with Grapple instead of Hoist.

These days, though, Trailcutter thought, it was more like Grapple and Hoist sharing Grapple’s hab in the stern. Grapple had originally been sharing with Mainframe, and everyone knew Mainframe didn’t live there any more. Mainframe lived with Jackpot, and Jackpot had gotten a hab suite to himself after winning some sort of bet with Rodimus. Rumour around the ship said that Ultra Magnus had forbidden Rodimus from gambling after that.

Grapple and Hoist had really hit it off, and Trailcutter, in his more sober moments, was more jealous than he liked to let on. When the _Lost Light_ had first launched, Trailcutter had thought sharing a hab suite with his buddy and occasional berth mate Hoist would eventually lead to something more permanent. But what it had led to was Grapple courting Hoist, and now Hoist spent his free time at Grapple’s while Trailcutter spent his time alone in their hab with a case of Nightmare Fuel tucked under his berth.

 _Good thing_ , Trailcutter repeated. _Hoist won’t see me stumbling around like this. This is…an anomaly. An unusual mistake. Something I don’t want a lecture over. Something that isn’t going to happen again. I just have to get through tonight. And Hoist won’t ever know. Good thing. That’s a good thing._

He tried not to think about Hoist too busy making out with Grapple to care where Trailcutter was or how he was doing.

No, Trailcutter thought, as the _Lost Light_ lurched—or seemed to—and sent him staggering across the corridor into the opposite wall, right now he had to think about getting back to his hab. 

He could follow the corridor around the bow of the ship, which was the easiest route, but which seemed like an excruciatingly long walk in the state he was in now. And, of course, there was the ever-present fear that he’d pass out in the hallway before he got there, which was really unfair, given that he didn’t have a _problem_ or anything. He’d just gotten into a bit of trouble, the way anyone could. If he was found passed out in the hall, he’d have a hard time explaining how this situation was a one-off thing, really.

Or he could take the shortcut through the officers’ quarters.

The hallway through the officers’ quarters was supposed to be off limits to everyone except the officers who actually lived there, the crew whose functions took them to that area of the ship to perform their jobs, and those responding to emergencies. Trailcutter knew that the last group was supposed to mean people performing emergency first aid or responding to distress calls, but given that he felt more than a little distress himself at the moment, he decided on a looser interpretation that would allow him to deal with his own little personal emergency.

Trailcutter opened the door to the officers’ quarters.

115\. That was Rodimus’ room. Rodimus was on duty right now, so Trailcutter didn’t feel bad when he stumbled and needed to reach out his arm against Rodimus’s door to catch himself. Rodimus wouldn’t be in there to hear any noise.

Trailcutter was not so sure about hab suite 114 on the opposite side of the hall. The door shone with an unnatural gleam, as though it were the focus of an advertisement for some kind of polishing solvent. All the rivets on the doorframe rested at perfect perpendicular angles to the floor. Even the numerals 114 were written in some kind of blocky, square-angled typeface that seemed to reach out and bludgeon the viewer into compliance with their unbending order. 

_Ultra Magnus’s hab_ , Trailcutter thought with a shiver.

And if he didn’t want to spend the next few weeks in the brig for public intoxication, trespassing, and conduct unbecoming a spacefarer, he had to make absolutely certain that Ultra Magnus had no reason whatsoever to open his door and investigate any noises he might hear in the hallway.

Trailcutter decided not to take stupid chances. The hallway was empty now, and there was no reason why he should have to try to walk down the middle of it to prove that he was okay to nonexistent onlookers. He kept his palm flat against the opposite wall from Magnus’s suite and took exactly three steps before he stumbled over his own feet, catching himself just in time.

Plastered to the wall, struggling to overcome the sensation that the ship was lurching and rolling under his feet, he prayed to Primus and the Five that Ultra Magnus had not heard him. He held his breath in his vents and listened.

No sound of movement in Magnus’s hab.

 _No more taking stupid chances_. Trailcutter braced his back to the wall and inched along sideways. He felt much more secure with both shoulder blades resting against the firm, steady surface. Never mind that his head felt as though it were floating a foot above his shoulders. His hands and back were solidly anchored to the wall. His left foot slid forward, then his right foot dragged to meet it, then he shifted his weight and did it again. One step at a time. Every step a little bit closer to home.

Trailcutter was just starting to feel better—this wasn’t so bad, he could just do this until he got to his own hab and nobody would ever know he’d overdone it a little tonight—when he felt the wall vanish behind him.

Something bumpy poked his shoulder as he fell backwards…all of a finger-length. Of course. Walls had _doors_ in them. He’d just inched his way over the frame of someone else’s door. Now he was standing with his back against the portal, his left hand curled over the doorframe. He glanced to the side, gritting his teeth as the world swayed, and tried to steady his gaze. The numbers on the plaque ran like watercolours in his vision. He couldn’t read it.

But he could _think_. 

115 was Rodimus, back behind him. 114 across the hall was Magnus. This room would be 113.

Who was in 113?

_Drift?_

Never mind. The question wasn’t important. It didn’t matter who lived here. He didn’t want _anyone_ seeing him like this if he could help it. 

Trailcutter hooked his right hand around the opposite doorframe, bounced his back off the wall and took a step to the right.

There was a soft sound behind him…a quiet, distant whoosh, and a feeling like a soft breeze against the top of his head. Trailcutter wondered what it could be as he moved his left foot next to his right and waited for the wall to catch him.

Except there was no wall.

There was no wall because the door to 113 had just opened behind him, and Trailcutter realized this fact on the way down to the floor.

#

Megatron had tried to ignore the scraping sounds in the corridor outside his door. He attempted to focus on the datapad in his hands, but a few seconds later the noise came again and completely derailed his thoughts. The opening verse of what would have been a poem slipped through his grasp and disappeared.

_Sliiiiiide…clunk. Whump. Sliiiiide…._

It was hardly the first time some fool of an Autobot had tried to vandalize Megatron’s quarters. It would be, however, the first time one had tried to do it _while Megatron was in his room_.

Usually when he was _home_ , unwanted visitors would rap on his door and run away. Invariably when he caught them they’d blame one of their friends for daring them to do it, or for calling in a bet. Typically their sobriety ran the gamut from hyped up on energy drinks to more than a little tipsy on energon lager. 

Megatron had been waiting for the joke to get old. Four months into the voyage, and he was still waiting.

Now, Megatron allowed himself a few wistful fantasies of tearing the most recent prankster’s arm off and clubbing him over the head with his own limb until he begged for mercy, but he was already well aware that Ultra Magnus would not permit such a punishment. He also admitted, with a flicker of guilt, that he ought to have learned by _personal experience_ how a beating could change a person. He ought not feel so _enthusiastic_ about doing so to some rank-and-file Autobot who’d likely never had such a punishment from someone he considered a commander.

So he would behave himself, no matter how it rankled him. He would report the transgressor to Magnus and he would let the mech be disciplined according to the Autobot Code. 

But he wasn’t above scaring the scrap out of him first.

Megatron set aside his datapad and rose to his feet, moving stealthily across his hab suite. It wasn’t easy for a mech of his size, but a lifetime of battle had taught him a gladiator’s grace and it helped that the room had so little in the way of furnishings. He pressed himself to the wall next to the door and listened.

 _Thunk._ Scrabbling against his doorframe.

Megatron felt guilty again, but he couldn’t help his predator’s smile, or that old hungry thrill in his spark as he closed in for the kill.

He pressed the button to open the door.

A blocky black frame fell through the open portal. The new arrival windmilled his arms, but he was several inches below where he thought he’d be, and his fingers missed the doorframe. His back leaned against a wall that suddenly wasn’t there. 

His aft took the brunt of the blow. He landed hard on the floor and sat there, stunned, his legs kicked out in front of him, his arms still churning uselessly. Then his head tilted hard to the right and he toppled right onto his back, lying stretched out at Megatron’s feet.

His red visor looked up unblinkingly and he groaned.

But he didn’t jump, and he didn’t recoil, and he didn’t shout for help—none of the expected reactions of any given Autobot when they saw the (former) leader of the Decepticons leering down at them. He simply cocked his head as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at—and then his optics went offline.

Megatron lost his smile. He raised his optic ridge instead, curious…

…until the smell of high-grade hit his olfactory sensors like the shock wave after an explosion.

Never mind _tipsy_. This bot was _fendered_. 

Megatron watched with tasteless fascination as the mech reached out with his hand and patted the floor in a crude arc next to himself, trying to figure out not just where he was, but how he was positioned in space relative to everything else around him. The Autobot’s hand travelled over his own face and he flinched. Megatron swore he saw the moment when his unwanted guest realized he was lying on the floor.

Megatron realized that his inclination to deliver a beating had vanished completely. He’d never fought an opponent unable to defend himself. He had no _desire_ to do so. There would be no satisfaction whatsoever from striking someone who couldn’t even react properly. 

And Megatron was left wondering what one was supposed to do with a drunk Autobot on one’s floor.

Megatron had never had this problem with his own troops. None of them would have _dared_. He hadn’t had this problem with the Autobots either. He’d never met an Autobot stupid enough to face him in such a state. Typically Megatron left messes like these for his troops to clean up. But Megatron didn’t want to call Magnus to come deal with this incident when he really ought to be dealing with it himself.

Only on the _Lost Light_ would Megatron ever have to deal with such a _ridiculous_ situation.

What should he even _do_? Take this mech to the brig for punishment? To the med bay for a systems flush? To his quarters, to sleep it off? What would Optimus Prime do? Because the _old_ Megatron would’ve stepped over the drunk mech and told Soundwave to make sure the matter was taken care of. The next day he would not have even bothered asking Soundwave _how_ , exactly, it had been taken care of. He wouldn’t have _cared_.

Megatron knelt down, examining the inebriated Autobot more closely. Ah, he recognized this one: Trailbreaker. Or Trailcutter as he called himself now. Megatron had been frustrated more than once by this bot’s forecefields. He was one of those special soldiers—an outlier.

Semi-conscious on Megatron’s floor, Trailcutter didn’t look like an elite warrior. He looked like a fool. This kind of idiocy ought to be beneath Megatron’s contempt.

And yet. Megatron was this mech’s leader now, whether he truly wanted to be or not.

Trailcutter pressed his right cheek to the floor. Coughed. Choked, and the act of choking gave him energy enough to roll his frame onto his right side, where he curled up in a ball, hacking and moaning. He drew air into his intakes in a series of hitched breaths. Drool slid in a ribbon from his parted lips to a pool on Megatron’s floor.

“Are you going to die in here?” Megatron asked sardonically.

Trailcutter’s visor flickered. “Sorry,” he groaned. “Just gimme…gimme a minute…an’ I’ll get out.”

Megatron wondered if Trailcutter even knew who he was talking to. There was still that peculiar absence of any of the expected responses to Megatron’s presence.

“You’re too inebriated to even move.” Megatron scowled with disgust. What would possess a bot to reduce himself to writhing on the ground like a worm?

Trailcutter wriggled, tried to get his feet under him, failed, and lay still a moment, breathing hard and thinking—or at least trying to think. From the way his brow furrowed, Megatron didn’t doubt he was making an effort. But the engex in his systems wasn’t just a fog, it was a blackout curtain.

“’m fine,” Trailcutter slurred. “I’ll be outta…outta your room inna minute.”

Trailcutter kicked his legs, which moved him a few inches in a circle to the right, but did nothing for actually shifting the bulk of his mass towards the doorway.

Megatron sighed. And, not for the first time, he wondered if Optimus Prime had consciously maneuvered him into the worst punishment the Autobots could give him.

#

Trailcutter was still not sure whose room he’d ended up falling into. Agitation pulsed through his systems, leaving a cold, prickly sensation in its wake, but he couldn’t even sit up, let alone get back to the hall. His vision threatened to black out entirely every time he lifted his head. He could move his limbs, but his flailing was useless—he couldn’t figure out what direction to shove in order to move his body towards the corridor. And he was getting the distinct impression that he might not be conscious for much longer. He had to get settled in a berth before he blacked out or he’d have real trouble explaining this situation away tomorrow.

He heard a scraping sound next to him, and then the sensation of strong arms sliding under his hips and shoulders. The next thing he knew, the floor turned to water…no. Someone was lifting him.

Someone _big_. Trailcutter was bulkier than the average ‘bot, and whoever this was, they didn’t seem to have any trouble lifting him up. Trailcutter felt no tremor in the strong arms that supported him. Who on the _Lost Light_ could lift him effortlessly?

_Oh, smelt me down._

“Magnus?” Trailcutter slurred.

A sibilant chuckle sliced through the fog in his head. “No. Guess again.”

Trailcutter let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up in the brig. The only thing worse than going unnoticed was being noticed for all the wrong reasons. He’d never live it down.

Only alcoholics and losers needed to sleep it off in the brig. He wasn’t either of those. No, not him. He was all right. Just an ordinary guy. Not the forcefield specialist, not the ship’s drunk….just an ordinary guy.

“Please don’t tell Magnus,” Trailcutter breathed as he turned over in the arms. “It’s a…a one time mistake. Swear.”

The mech sighed again. Trailcutter could feel his warm exhaust against his upper cheek. It felt nice.

“Should I take you to the medic?”

Trailcutter lay his cheek against the other mech’s chest by way of response. It felt warm, wonderfully warm, and Trailcutter could feel the comforting whirr of internal gears clicking away, sending their little vibrations through living metal. It had been a long time since Trailcutter had been held like this. He sighed happily. 

The other mech moved. Trailcutter’s upper optic saw the lighting change, even though his visual display had been reduced to a disorienting smear of colours. They flickered as the mech walked, and their shifting blurs nauseated him. He turned his optics off. His audials heard the sound of heavy footsteps. The smell in the air turned more complex, less dusty. They were in the hallway.

“Where we goin’?” Trailcutter slurred.

“Med bay.” The other mech’s voice was firm.

“Don’t wanna.” Trailcutter buried his face in his comrade’s chest again. “Don’ make me.”

“You’re not well.”

Trailcutter thought, organizing his words so he could speak deliberately, using his _Really, I’m Sober_ voice. “Firs’Aid’s just gonna tell me to sleep it off,” Trailcutter said. “I know ‘xactly what happened. Just didn’t…didn’t know how strong it was. Just an honest mistake. Could happenta anyone.”

The mech sighed. Trailcutter could feel the soft breeze of his breath. The sensation of movement went away, and Trailcutter guessed they were standing stock-still in the corridor.

“Just take me to berth.” Trailcutter smiled as he savoured the warmth from the mech’s chest against his cheek. He realized he hadn’t specified _which_ berth. But that was okay. Trailcutter didn’t necessarily need _his own_ berth. 

“Any berth will do,” he added, wondering if that was an appropriately no-pressure way to hint that he wouldn’t mind going back to _this mech_ ’s berth, even though something was telling him he shouldn’t. He wasn’t certain why not, though…

…. _oh_. _Right_. It was because he was completely Star Sabered and didn’t know whose berth he might end up in. He rather fancied the mech who was carrying him—he was so strong and warm, and he hadn’t said anything mean at all, and his hands on Trailcutter’s frame were so powerful and yet so gentle—but Trailcutter knew he wasn’t up to doing anything more than curl up and fall asleep. He needed to sleep it off, get some proper fuel in his systems, maybe cuddle for the morning, and _then_ he’d be ready for a good time. 

He hoped his mystery mech liked to snuggle. Trailcutter lit his upper optic, trying to get a good look at the person who carried him, but he saw only painfully bright light and smudged colour. He dimmed it again and breathed in the scent of oil and gunpowder instead.

“I’m not sure you’re sober enough to make wise choices,” the mech grumbled.

Trailcutter threw his arms around his rescuer, ready to cling if he had to. “Just take me home with you.”

“If I do, you’re going right to sleep. Understood?”

Trailcutter grinned. “Cross my die. Hope to spark.” He drew a big X on his…well, it was more like his hip than his spark chamber, but he was pretty sure the mech would get the general idea. 

Wait, was that really how the saying went?

Trailcutter didn’t know. Didn’t care. He held on tight as motion resumed. He felt as though he were spinning in circles, and then he realized that the mech had turned around and was walking back the way he’d come. 

Oh. Yes. He was going to get what he’d wanted. His spark thrummed with excitement. Unfortunately, his mind kept wanting to slip into sleep. Trailcutter needed all his strength to haul it back out again. He bit down on his teeth to keep himself alert. There was no way he was going to pass out before he got to enjoy this.

Trailcutter’s head spun and he felt a sudden sensation of…not falling, exactly. Being lowered. He clung tightly to the arms, which held him in a reassuring grip. And when he felt something soft and yielding underneath him, he knew he was safe in a berth. The hands eased him down, lowering his head carefully onto a pillow.

“Turn onto your side.”

Trailcutter didn’t move. He didn’t want to turn. His companion could get in here and turn him himself…

There was sound, and Trailcutter found his right arm being lifted to a position above his head. His left knee was bent—not of its own volition. One hand grasped his left shoulder, the other his left knee, and in a smooth movement he found himself being rolled onto his side. The sudden motion was nauseating and disorienting. Trailcutter gulped for cool air, trying to stabilize the roiling in his tanks.

He realized, after the fact, that the sound had been his companion explaining what he was doing. And he was still speaking. “We used to do this in the mines. You won’t flood your intakes if you purge.” 

Trailcutter tried to return to his back, but the hands returned, holding him steady. “You need to stay in this position..”

It was easier to give in than to fight. The sloshing in his tanks diminished. “Okay.”

“Covers?” the voice whispered in his audio.

“Y-yeah,” Trailcutter stammered. Covers would be nice. A warm, soft nest just big enough for two…

_Damn it! Stay awake!_

A soft chamois floated down around his body like a cloud. Precise hands tucked it under his chin, over his shoulders. Trailcutter felt his whole frame relaxing.

Then he felt the other mech’s presence withdraw. He heard more sounds. Not that deep, comforting voice any more. Sounds like footsteps.

Trailcutter’s optics flared to life. He couldn’t see well, but he could make out the silhouette of a powerfully built mech walking away from him.

“No! Don’t go!” Trailcutter tried to shout, but he mumbled instead. The other mech probably hadn’t heard him, because he was still moving. Trailcutter tried again, forcing the words out of his lips. “Wait! Where are you going?”

The silhouette hesitated. “I’m calling Magnus.”

Alarms flashed across Trailcutter’s heads-up display. In his current state they looked like yellow blinking static. “Don’t do that!” he gasped, sounding almost sober. If only he could _see_. His optics fritzed out again. 

“I have to. For both our sakes. But I won’t let him take you to the brig.”  
Trailcutter felt doubtful. “D’you really gotta?”

“I do.” The mech sounded very certain. “I’ll tell him it was just a matter of underestimating precisely how strong that last drink was. That’s what happened, wasn’t it? You were having a drink and you just didn’t quite guess right when you tried to calculate how powerful it would be?”

The excuse sounded a lot more convincing coming from the other mech. Maybe it was because he was speaking more clearly and didn’t reek of engex, the way Trailcutter did. But on second thought, Trailcutter didn’t think that was quite it. There was something about the _way_ the mech said it, something more than just him being sober. When he talked, he had a way of making it sound like every word was true. You could trust that every word was true. You wanted to believe him. And you wanted to follow him. You wanted…you wanted to put your hopes in his hands.

Right now, Trailcutter would follow him _anywhere_.

“Yeah,” Trailcutter said.

“Then you rest, and let me do the talking.”

“You’ll come back?”

“I will.”

“You promise?”

A pause. There was an odd note in the stranger’s voice when he replied, “I do.”

Trailcutter sighed. He still didn’t like hearing the hab suite door swish open, or the feeling of being left alone in the dark in a strange place, but he trusted his companion would return. Still, the tension helped him to fight back sleep for the two minutes it took before the hab door opened again. Trailcutter lay still, his cheek on the pillow, listening to faraway voices. One was the stern tones of Ultra Magnus; the other, the pleasant gravelly voice of his mystery mech.

“…refusing to go to med bay.”

Trailcutter swore he heard Magnus’s patented Sigh of Disapproval. “…take him to the brig, then.”

Trailcutter’s spark clenched.

“No, no need to do that,” the mystery mech said smoothly. “He hasn’t committed a _crime_ , surely? He went from the bar to a hab suite, peacefully and under his own power. If you’re going to lock him up for that, you’ll have to lock up three-quarters of this ship.”

Bless that mech with his wonderful, persuasive voice.

“He didn’t go to _his own_ hab,” Magnus pointed out. 

“Oh? I didn’t realize that was a necessary qualifier. I really must have a discussion with at least a _third_ of this ship, if so.”

Magnus exhaled heavily. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. He clearly isn’t in your hab because you _invited_ him, or you wouldn’t have contacted me.”

“Actually he _is_ here because I chose to let him in, and then I contacted you for guidance on proper procedure, both to ensure Trailcutter’s welfare _and_ to make certain I don’t have to deal with any after-the-fact allegations of impropriety.”

“Really. What do you propose, then?”

Trailcutter pressed his cheek against the pillow and lay still, savouring the warm, solid berth and the scent of its owner. He hoped that Magnus would let him stay, even if it was just a little longer.

“He doesn’t wish to go to the medic, and based on the best available evidence, his only problem is intoxication, for which time is the best cure. I can stay up and watch him just as well here as whoever’s on guard duty could watch him in the brig. I realize his ability to consent is impaired, but practically speaking, he wants to be in my hab and he’s going to struggle if you try to move him.”

“And you don’t mind watching him?” Magnus inquired skeptically. 

“I opened the door of my own accord, and he entered.”

Trailcutter smirked, because he saw what his new friend did there. Technically speaking, none of that sentence was a lie. He opened the door all right, and Trailcutter fell right through it. 

Trailcutter heard footsteps approaching him. He lit his optics and forced them to focus, just for a moment. Ultra Magnus stood over him, and his mystery mech was just a hazy shadow behind Magnus’s shoulder. Then the room fell apart in a spray of static, and Trailcutter turned his optics back off.

“Trailcutter. Do you know who I am?”

“Ulla Mannus,” Trailcutter slurred. Primus, but he was tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Magnus to leave him with his new friend before he just passed out.

“And do you know where you are?”

“Yeah.” Trailcutter knew several places where he was, including: in bed, aboard the Lost Light, and in outer space. Not even a lie! Just like his new friend, it wasn’t even a lie. He could do this too! Trailcutter grinned, then tried to hide the expression. He didn’t want Ultra Magnus to know he was being tricked.

“And you want to be here?”

“Yeah.” Trailcutter cuddled down into the soft berth.

Magnus sighed. “I hope you don’t regret this in the morning.”

Trailcutter was just happy that _Ultra Magnus_ didn’t seem inclined to make him regret it, right now _or_ in the morning. Everything else, Trailcutter could handle.

Trailcutter heard Magnus moving. “...should leave your door open,” he murmured.

“Because _that_ won’t get around the ship if someone looks in.”

“This is the officers’ quarters. Who do you think is going to…” Magnus bit off. Murmured a name as though it were a confession. “Rodimus.”

“Yes, exactly. I’m asking for privacy for Trailcutter’s sake, not mine.”

“You do realize there could still be allegations…”

“Run your security cams. Watch them if you like. Be certain they’re recording.”

“We don’t have security cams in private quarters.”

“You do in mine.”

“I…”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Magnus.”

Another sigh. “All right.” Trailcutter heard the door slide open. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Ultra Magnus.”

Heavy footfalls, the swish of the door, a sudden muting of Magnus’s steps fading away down the hall. And Trailcutter was here, alone, with his new friend.

He fought to stay awake, even as wave after wave of engex and fatigue threatened to drag him under into dream. He wanted to stay alert long enough to enjoy at least a little of what was coming next. Trailcutter waited, counting the rotations of his fans as he anticipated the presence of a warm frame next to his in the berth. The mech’s footsteps sounded with agonizing slowness.

Then a muffled thud and a creak.

Trailcutter brightened his optics. If he squinted, he could distinguish a silhouette that might be a mech sitting in a chair. He thought he saw the light from a datapad glowing across a broad chest, a chiseled jaw.

“Aren’t’cha comin’ to bed?” Trailcutter slurred.

“I can sleep sitting up.” A soft “heh.” “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Y’don’t have to.”

“You need to stay right there. Remember? It’s important you stay in that position.”

“Yeah, I know. But I shouldn’ kick ya outta your own berth.”

“I’m all right.”

“’s big enough for two,” Trailcutter muttered.

“You want me in there,” the voice said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yer warm.”

There was a long silence. Trailcutter lit an optic, trying to see what was happening, and he perceived the dark shadow of his rescuer standing over him, as though stunned into a statue. His vision faded, and he tried one last time. “It’s cold. I’m cold. Yer warm.”

His words seemed to inspire the other mech to action. He circled the berth, talking as he moved. “You’re in no state to consent to anything. So I’m not going to _do_ anything. Nothing but some heat through the cover, you understand?”

“Uh huh.” Trailcutter still held his breath with excitement as he felt the berth sag slightly under the other mech’s weight. He waited until his companion lay still, and then he inched himself backward, careful to keep in the same general position as he’d been laid down in. It was, after all, important. He couldn’t quite remember why, but he trusted his new friend’s word.

One more inch and Trailcutter couldn’t move any more. His back was up against something warm and solid. His companion drew in a startled breath, but Trailcutter sighed blissfully. This was…

…Almost perfect. Something still wasn’t quite right. The frame behind him felt sort of warm, in a fuzzy sort of way. The mystery mech had been warmer, and sleeker, when he’d been holding Trailcutter. Trailcutter reached behind himself with his left arm, pawing at the blanket.

“No, you need to lie still,” the voice said, taking his arm and guiding it back into position.

“Make me,” Trailcutter countered.

“I can hold you still like this all night if I have to,” the mech threatened.

Trailcutter grinned. He could feel the mech’s front pressed against his back, even through the blanket. He liked the feeling of the hand gripping his wrist. “Yeah,” he said, entirely too smugly, and then realized his mistake. “I mean, yeah, that’s prob’ly a good idea an’…”

“Heh. You really want me like this.”

“Uh huh.” Trailcutter beamed. “Izzat okay? Yer…you’re so warm…I like…”

His companion sighed. Trailcutter didn’t understand the note of regret in the sound.

“Yes, Trailcutter. It’s okay.”

Trailcutter nestled into the warm embrace of his new friend, savouring the soft berth and the warm blanket and the gentle thrum of someone else’s machinery whirring contentedly next to him. His life didn’t get much better than this. He managed to enjoy it for ten perfect seconds before his engex-soaked systems entered involuntary shutdown and sent him deep into recharge, where he slept without dreaming.


	2. The Mornings After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secondary song!
> 
> _Let's make a night you won't remember_  
>  I'll be the one you won't forget   
> \--"Timber" by Pitbull featuring Ke$ha
> 
> Merry Christmas, Cav :)

_Part 2: The Mornings After_

_The next morning_

Trailcutter’s optics came online to the sight of a bare wall.

Where was he? He had no idea. But this was far from the first time he’d woken up in such a situation.

His mouth tasted like the bottom of a sluice pipe. His fuel tanks sloshed unpleasantly. They felt mostly hollow, but by the Smelter, he didn’t want to put anything in them right now. Soon he would make himself drink some simple fuel—just enough to water down the last of the night before’s sludge—but first, he needed to let his gyros reset and figure out where he was.

Okay, step by step. A door in the wall. Not the brig, then.

A berth under him. Not a bad one, either—a little hard for Trailcutter’s taste, but certainly more comfortable than those miserable slabs in med bay.

A med bay recovery room? No hospital equipment in sight. No hospital _smell_ in the air. No Ratchet talking a little too loudly.

He’d probably ended up in one of the vacant hab suites. Trailcutter groaned. He was going to have to get better at finding his way back to his own hab. One of these days, Ultra Magnus would call a room inspection and find that Trailcutter crashed in the unoccupied habs almost as often as in his own berth, and _then_ he’d have a hell of a time arguing that he didn’t have a _problem_. He was pretty sure everyone would be too busy laughing at him to even listen to his counterargument.

So he had to stop being so lazy, then. Problem solved. 

He shoved himself up on one elbow and immediately regretted it as the room tilted and spun. Trailcutter lay right back down, resting his head on the pillow and forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths until the sense of movement went away.

It did—slowly—but as it faded, Trailcutter became increasingly aware of another sensation.

Warmth.

At his back. 

_There was someone behind him_.

Who had he spent the night with? His memory was a blank. He thought he’d left Swerve’s alone. 

If he’d had a fun night with someone, he couldn’t recall any of it. The only data in his memory banks were faint wisps: the smell of cordite, the feeling of being lifted, a deep voice instructing him to lie on his side. Secure warmth behind him. Strong arms around him. A voice that he wanted to trust. Words that seduced not his body but his spark. Lies that weren’t lies, not really. Not when they were spoken in that smooth and certain voice.

Trailcutter had woken up with virtual strangers in the berth with him before, but not recently. Not in a long time, actually. And right now, he was lonely enough to hope that whoever it was, maybe they’d want him back again.

Maybe they’d even want him back when they were both sober.

He hoped, if his companion’s memory was better than his, that he’d made a good show. Something worth repeating. It would be nice to have someone to go to. Someone who would keep him company.

Trailcutter pressed back into that warmth and realized that there was a tarp between him and his companion. It took him a few moments to figure out that he was under the covers, but his berthmate had to be on top of them. 

Why? What was wrong? Hadn’t his new companion wanted to touch him? 

Trailcutter felt inexplicably hurt. He wouldn’t purge his tanks or anything. He didn’t have a _problem_ like that. Why wasn’t he worth touching?

Trailcutter braced himself against the disorientation he knew was coming. Then he wriggled once, twice, and freed himself from the tarp enough to sit up in bed. He turned his head to look at his companion. 

The former leader of the Decepticons sat on top of the tarp, his back resting on the headboard of the berth. He must have sensed Trailcutter’s movements, because he looked up from the datapad he was reading.

Trailcutter felt a sudden, overwhelming nausea and dizziness and, yes, more than a little fear. He shoved himself away from Megatron and leaned over the side of the bed, ready to empty his tanks into a thoughtfully placed bucket. Trailcutter gasped, sucking cold air into his intakes, feeling his frame crawl with flash overheat in random locations while his systems struggled to reach equilibrium.

The nausea passed. Hands shaking, Trailcutter looked back over his shoulder.

Megatron was still there. He’d returned his attention to the datapad.

“You,” Trailcutter blurted.

Megatron glanced up.

Trailcutter looked around the room. It still looked like an unoccupied hab. There was nothing on the walls, no non-issue furniture, nothing but regulation desk and regulation chair and regulation nightstand and regulation berth….no, wait. A neatly stacked pile of datapads on the desk. That wasn’t a standard furnishing. 

“Is this _your hab_?” Trailcutter demanded.

“Didn’t you realize where you were when you fell through my door last night?” Megatron asked mildly.

_Right_. That comment jogged a recollection in Trailcutter’s memory banks. Taking the shortcut through the officers’ hallway. He’d done that more than once before.

_Lazy_.

Well, he just wouldn’t be lazy any more. He couldn’t undo the past, but he could fix the future. And right now, he needed his mind in the present to deal with…with waking up next to _the former Decepticon Emperor._

What had he been thinking last night? What had he been doing? Sneaking through the officers’ corridor, avoiding Ultra Magnus’s door…

…falling through Suite 113’s.

_Megatron’s_.

Trailcutter felt his frame go cold, as though his armour were freezing him from the outside in.

“I. Ah.” What could he _say_? That he was too intoxicated to know what he was doing last night? Or that he’d known exactly what he was doing, and therefore was wholly to blame for the situation he found himself in. Which would be a _worse_ thing to admit?

“You were more worried about Ultra Magnus than me, last night,” Megatron offered.

Ultra Magnus…were those memories from last night, from some previous night, or dreams? 

Trailcutter remembered the cold bolt of fear in his spark when he thought about Ultra Magnus finding him Star Sabered in the corridor and dragging him off to the brig to sleep it off, where he’d wake up the next morning to find himself the butt of ridicule. He remembered the generous warmth in a strong broad chest, the feeling of being lifted in powerful but gentle arms. He heard Megatron’s voice in its smooth, confident tones assuring Ultra Magnus that there was no problem here. Trailcutter had been so scared of Magnus that he’d sought protection from someone infinitely worse. 

“Who knows I’m in here?” Primus, he hadn’t left _Swerve_ ’s with Megatron, had he? Was the whole ship laughing about Trailcutter getting fragged by Megatron last night, whether or not they’d actually done anything?

_No. Keep your head. Swerve doesn’t let Megatron come into his bar._

Actually, Trailcutter wasn’t sure if Swerve could legally bar the ship’s captain from his establishment. It was probably Megatron’s choice not to go where he wasn’t welcome. 

“As far as I know, yourself, me, Ultra Magnus, and whoever else Magnus might have cleared to watch the security footage.”

Trailcutter blinked. “Security footage?”

“If you’ve got any concerns about what happened last night, go ask Magnus to let you watch it.”

“Wait, you’ve got security cameras in this hab?” Trailcutter couldn’t help himself—he automatically started looking around for them, and then felt dizzy from moving his head too far, too quickly. Groaning, he lay back down on the pillow.

“Do you really think they’d take their optics off me for an instant?” Megatron replied.

Trailcutter groaned. “But you’re an Autobot now.”

“So?”

Trailcutter sat up again. Megatron’s nonchalance didn’t seem _right_. “So, either you _are_ or you’re _not_ , and if you’re _not_ you should be in the brig, and if you _are_ then we’ve got no right to treat you like a criminal unless you actually _do_ something to deserve it.”

“One might say I’ve done a number of things to deserve it.”

“Yeah, but you also haven’t been _proven_ guilty.” Trailcutter dared to reset his optics. The image they returned was steady. He slid his gaze towards Megatron. “And I don’t think you’ve done anything _since_ Prime put you on board this ship.”

Megatron exhaled, looking down at his datapad. He seemed relieved. Trailcutter couldn’t imagine what he’d been worried about.

Carefully, Trailcutter sat up again. “Why’d you let me sleep here?”

Megatron looked up from his ‘pad. “You weren’t inclined to leave.”

“And all I did was sleep?”

“Check the tapes if you don’t believe me. Though I will state for the record, you were the one who wanted me in the berth, and I was the one who insisted on remaining on top of the covers.”

Trailcutter flushed. “Sorry. I mean, I apologize. I bet I said, and did, a lot of stupid stuff last night.”

“You were under the influence. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Trailcutter felt Megatron’s casual dismissal like a stab in the spark.

_Strong, warm frame holding him gently._

_Tucking him into a soft berth._

_“Lie like this…no, knee up. We used to do this in the mines. You won’t flood your intakes if you purge.”_

_“Good night, Trailcutter.”_

That was all…nothing? It didn’t mean anything?

The new friend he’d thought he’d made…that was an illusion? 

_That mech never existed. You dreamed him up. It was Megatron the whole time._

And that care and concern…hadn’t been real?

Trailcutter set his jaw, willing his lips not to quiver. “So what do I deserve for what I’ve done?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge.

Trailcutter steeled his nerves and prepared to own up to his actions. “I got Star Sabered, embarrassed myself in front of a commanding officer, and apparently occupied your hab by force. I’m not going to get away with it, am I?” Trailcutter found himself wishing that he _had_ staggered into Magnus’s door last night. He knew the regulation consequences for public drunkenness and unauthorized access of the officers’ quarters. He had no idea what kind of punishment Megatron might cook up for his offense, but he knew from the history books that Megatron tended towards the _disproportionate_.

“No, you probably shouldn’t,” Megatron said thoughtfully. “Rest assured that the next time you make a drunken fool of yourself in my presence, that there will be consequences to ensure there will never be a third time.” And he returned his attention to the datapad.

Trailcutter stared, incredulous. “That’s _it_?”

Megatron looked up, and once again, there was no trace of his legendary temper. Trailcutter felt as though he’d fell through into a parallel universe. One where Megatron wore an Autobot badge and possessed apparently infinite patience.

“You _want_ a stronger punishment?”

“Er, _no_ ,” Trailcutter stammered….but _didn’t he_? Wouldn’t punishment be a lesson to go easier on the booze? Didn’t he _deserve_ a little hurt for all his failures?

_No_ , another voice in his head argued. _The last thing you want is Megatron policing your engex intake. You can have as much or as little as you want. As_ you _want. If you want more, you won’t want him stopping you. After all, it’s not as though you have a_ drinking problem _or anything._

Trailcutter didn’t know what to think.

“I would have thought,” Megatron continued, “that it was certainly punishment _enough_ to go about your life with the knowledge of impending consequences hanging over your head. Because if you slip up, even _once_ , you won’t be able to plead that you didn’t know, or that you weren’t prepared. You know _exactly_ what you have coming to you now. And your punishment is to consider how _not_ to get it.”

Trailcutter wanted to argue that he didn’t know at all, but the more he thought about it, the more he could _guess_. There were a _number_ of permanent solutions to his drinking, and to someone who employed the Decepticon Justice Division, Trailcutter could guess which Megatron would pick.

_Rodimus won’t let him execute you_.

No, Rodimus would let Megatron send him back to Cybertron in humiliation, or lock him up in the brig for the rest of the voyage. Trailcutter might prefer the execution, as long as it was relatively painless. Wouldn’t that be something? A sudden, painless finality…

Trailcutter’s thoughts veered away, repulsed by that line of thought, unwilling to continue it. He didn’t want to _die_. He just didn’t want to hurt. Or be so alone.

“Yes, sir,” Trailcutter mumbled.

Megatron nodded. “Is there anything further?”

_You felt good, last night._

_I’m glad I came here._

There was no way Trailcutter could say those things. He still wasn’t even sure what he _thought_ about those notions, though he was beginning to suspect that both of them were true. 

“No, sir,” he said instead.

“Dismissed.” Megatron returned his attention to the datapad before Trailcutter even left the room.

Those were the kind of things best thought about while drinking an energon lager. Or two. As soon as he was off duty tonight, he was going to go down to Swerve’s and do some deep and serious thinking.

He probably imagined that Megatron had taken another glance at him as he turned to leave.

#

When the door of the hab suite closed, Megatron turned his attention back to his datapad. He’d read some of this information before. He made it a point to know his enemies: their strengths, and their weaknesses. But he’d never taken the time to think of Trailcutter as anything more than a potential adversary on the battlefield.

Truth be told, it had been a long time since he’d thought of _anyone_ in terms other than what they could do for him, or what they threatened to do against him. When had all his friends and comrades become a series of tools in his hands? 

He hadn’t expected to _miss_ them so much. 

Deadlock. Starscream. He’d stepped past them and they’d fallen away when his back was turned, changing their forms, converting themselves into people he no longer recognized. 

Soundwave. Tarn. He’d left his old ideology and burned his bridges behind him. There was no going back. His most loyal officers probably wanted to kill him now.

There’d been something strangely touching in the simple warmth of a frame lying next to his. It had taken him back millions of years, before the war, before even the activism, when he’d been nothing but a miner, taking comfort from the simple presence of others of his kind. 

Impactor. Trannis. He had lain next to them in the dark and felt a precious comfort unlike anything he’d had since.

Until last night.

A shame, then, that Trailcutter had been too intoxicated to know what he was doing, and so obviously regretful now. Of course he was. Megatron might have an Autobot badge on his chest, but even so, no Autobot in his right mind would want to get too close. Only Bumblebee, and he was dead. 

It hurt, this pain that Megatron thought might be called _loneliness_.

He pushed it down as a matter of course. Megatron had spent millions of years too busy with the welfare of his society to care much about a little private pain. And now that the war was over, he had a lifetime of amends to busy himself with making. He had no more time for pain now than he did then.

But still, he indulged himself a little. He skimmed the Autopedia article on his datapad.

Trailcutter. Trailbreaker. Gifted. Troubled. Unfulfilled. 

Maybe Megatron could fix that.

#

_Two months later_

_After the disappearance of the alternate Lost Light_

_and the retrieval of the bots floating in space_

_Prior to Ofsted VXII_

Trailcutter should’ve been tired, or clingy, or even sad when he’d been fished out of space, pulled onto a rescue shuttle, and taken to the _Lost Light_. Instead, he felt angry. Floating in space had left him with nothing to do but think, and his thoughts had turned to the fact that he was floating in space _dead sober_.

And _why_.

He’d hoped to have his new job to take his mind off his thoughts, but upon reporting to the bridge, Ultra Magnus had told him that the situation was covered, and to get himself to Ratchet for inspection. Which he did. Being physically fine (except for his sobriety), he was turned out of medbay and left to his own devices.

He’d actually been back on his regular barstool at Swerve’s, halfway through his fifth energon lager, when he realized that Megatron’s threat had been every bit the truth. He should have been halfway to drunk by now. Instead, he wasn’t feeling even the mildest hint of a buzz.

He would have to get Ratchet to check, but he had the terrible suspicion that the doctor would only tell him what Megatron had already said. His FIM chip was permanently engaged. He’d never get overcharged again.

Unless Ratchet…? Surely Ratchet could fix it. Ratchet could replace the chip with a new one. Right?

Trailcutter looked down into his energon lager and wondered if he wanted Ratchet to do that.

Because maybe Megatron was right. The drink tasted good, and Trailcutter could have all he wanted. He’d never have to worry about making an aft of himself while overcharged again. He’d never go to work hung over again. He had a worthwhile job to go _to_. And that terrible craving running down his fuel lines was all but silent.

Unfortunately, the ache in his spark was not.

He had nowhere to go, now, when living hurt. Nothing to do when he was alone and had nobody to keep him company. There’d be no more drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Nowhere to hide from the fact that he wasn’t much—if anything—without his forcefield. His escape hatch had been slammed shut and locked from the inside.

By Megatron.

And Trailcutter felt his systems running hard and hot with a rare emotion: rage.

Trailcutter considered himself a pretty easy-going guy, but a mech had to draw the line somewhere. Being left to face his life without a drink in his hand, _without his consent_? That was over the line. A punch to the face could be repaired, but this…what if Ratchet couldn’t undo it?

No. Megatron had gone too far.

Trailcutter was the security chief now. He was supposed to anticipate and take care of any potential threats to the crew. Well, there was one in his sights right now.

The threat in the captain’s chair.

#

Megatron wasn’t on duty. Trailcutter didn’t care. He was going to find out whether his new position as director of security gave him the leverage to meet with his captain during the captain’s time off. 

He messaged Megatron directly. As Chief of Security, he had the right to do so. “I need to meet with you.” He let his voice convey the urgency. Trailcutter was surprised at how convincing he sounded. It was almost as though he’d actually earned the position he’d held. He sounded like someone with authority.

Megatron responded almost immediately. “I’m in my hab suite now. Does that suit?”

_Megatron’s hab_. 

Trailcutter still had memories of Megatron’s hab, most of which were used in fantasizing about a kind, handsome mystery lover who absolutely _wasn’t_ Megatron but who would hold him and cuddle him and look after him the way Megatron had on that one night when everyone had apparently taken leave of all their senses for a while. Trailcutter vowed that he would not think about any of those things now as he knocked on the door to 113. 

“Enter,” came Megatron’s voice. Trailcutter palmed the door panel. It slid open, revealing the same barren little room that looked all but unoccupied save for the desk with its datapads, Megatron seated in the chair in front of it, and the berth with its cover folded neatly at the foot.

_Don’t look at it_ , Trailcutter told himself, even as he remembered how that cover had felt folded under his chin, and the warm tingle of Megatron’s EM field mingling with his own.

“I want to talk,” Trailcutter said, stepping into the room and folding his arms across his chest in what he hoped looked like a gesture of authority and not a parody of Ultra Magnus, “about what you did to me.”

Megatron looked up from his datapad with a mild expression that said _so talk, then_ as eloquently as words.

“How could you do that?” Trailcutter exploded. “How _dare_ you change my frame without my consent?”

Megatron didn’t flinch, but he did rise to his feet as Trailcutter found himself spilling every thought on his mind.

“You know what I don’t get? Two months ago. I pass out right here in your hab. You could’ve kicked me out the door. You could’ve beaten me. _Killed_ me. You could’ve fragged me and told me I’d asked for it and _I would have believed you_. But _no_ , you’re a model of restraint. You…you even _looked after me_ ….and don’t you give me that look, _I saw the security tapes_.”

Megatron’s face remained impassive, but his optics widened ever so slightly.

“Remember? You told me that you behaved yourself, but I didn’t have to take your word on it. I could ask Magnus to let me see the security footage of your hab.” Trailcutter put his hands on his hips. “So I did.”

“So you saw I told the truth.”

“I saw a hell of a lot more than that. I saw you talking to me to make me feel safe. I saw you folding that tarp over me to keep me warm. I saw you humoring my request to keep me company in about the most chaste way anyone could imagine. I saw that you sat up all night and yeah, there might’ve been a datapad in your hands, but you weren’t looking at it all that often. You were looking at _me_. You were looking at me to be sure I was all right and you were _so_ concerned that nothing happen against my will, but _now…_ Now all of a sudden you think it’s perfectly fine to knock me sober, _forever_.”

Megatron frowned. “You knew it was coming.”

“What?”

“I told you that morning in my hab that your punishment was the knowledge you’d get no third strike. If I saw you behave like that in my presence again, I would correct it permanently. And I did. So either you behaved as you did on purpose, deliberately seeking the outcome…”

Trailcutter gasped, incredulous. “Are you saying I _wanted_ this to happen? That it’s my fault?”

“Or you were foolish enough to forget, in which case the mistake was yours.” Megatron pressed his lips together. “Either way, you had it coming.”

“It doesn’t work like that!” Trailcutter exploded. “So, what, if I tell you “cross me again and I’ll cut your throat,” does that make murder suddenly justified? Or _legal_? Magnus would still toss me in the brig for it, because _I’m_ not qualified to apply the death penalty. And _you’re_ not qualified to forcibly modify my frame.”

“It was for your own good.”

“Is that what they told you on Messatine?”

Megatron’s jaw dropped.

And red lights started flashing in the corners of Trailcutter’s vision as he realized the line he’d just crossed.

Being chief of security was about de-escalating situations, and flaunting Megatron’s worst trigger right in his face was the opposite of de-escalation. Megatron was either going to go icy cold and Trailcutter was going to spend the rest of his life watching his back for the DJD or something like them, or he was going to fly into one of his infamous rages and Trailcutter was going to get killed by the very person who’d put him in charge of making sure nobody got killed on this ship.

But instead, Megatron’s legs folded under him and he sat back down, heavily, in his chair.

Trailcutter stood there, watching with bated breath as Megatron raised his hand to his cheek. The one-time warlord of the Decepticon Empire looked stunned.

“I never,” Megatron said, his voice soft, his words trailing off. He swallowed and tried again. “I never thought of it that way.” His gaze flicked up to Trailcutter, who fidgeted uncomfortably. “How did I _not see that_?”

Trailcutter didn’t answer, but Megatron kept looking at him, as though he expected a reply. Trailcutter wondered if being quiet might make Megatron angrier than saying something. He couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “I don’t know, sir,” Trailcutter stammered at last. 

“How did I not see _any of it_?”

Megatron rose to his feet again. Trailcutter gulped. 

“Trailcutter,” Megatron said. “ _I am so sorry_.”

What the hell was Trailcutter supposed to do with a personal apology from Cybertron’s worst war criminal? An apology that, Trailcutter had no doubt, was absolutely sincere?

“It’s, uh, it’s okay. Apology accepted.”

Megatron didn’t seem relieved. “I wonder if Ratchet can…” he said, and Trailcutter realized that Megatron was not looking for an easy absolution. Even with the apology accepted, Megatron would not consider the matter settled until the problem had been fixed.

“Megatron,” Trailcutter said quietly. He had to repeat it before he got the captain’s attention. “I don’t think I should ask Ratchet to fix me.”

Megatron raised an optic ridge, clearly curious.

“I overenergize way too often,” Trailcutter admitted. “Yes, part of it is that I need more fuel than most people. But more of it is that I drink when I’m lonely, I drink when I’m bored, and I drink when I don’t feel good about myself, and looking back, I realize that I’ve spent a lot of my life fendered, instead of doing anything to change why I’m lonely, bored and feeling bad. Well, you can’t have a Star Sabered Chief of Security, and that job should stop me from getting bored, and if I do it well enough, maybe I’ll even start to feel good about myself. And since I’ve proven repeatedly that unlike most people, I can’t consume in moderation, maybe it’s better if there’s no reason to consume at all.” Trailcutter looked miserably at the floor. What was he even trying to say? What Megatron did still wasn’t _right_ , but for the first time in a long time, Trailcutter was capable of sober second thought, and his sober second thought was telling him that he shouldn’t throw this opportunity away.

“Is that all you wanted?” Megatron asked, and it was strange to hear a note of hesitance in his voice. “Just to hear an apology?”

“Well, I…I wanted you to know it was wrong. And _why_. That’s more important than the apology.”

“I’m not sure about that. I’ve not been very good at saying I’m sorry. Maybe it’s that I don’t expect anyone to believe me. Or maybe it’s that I’ve gotten used to relying on actions rather than words.” Megatron, Trailcutter noted, was also looking at the floor. “Or…or maybe I needed to fully _understand_ what I did, and what came of those actions, before I can truly repent.”

“Oh. Okay.” Trailcutter reached out his hand and rested it on Megatron’s upper arm.

Megatron flinched.

Trailcutter jerked his hand away. “Sorry. Did I…I should’ve asked. Sorry.”

“It’s all right, I…” Megatron’s optics gazed into his. “You can put it back, if you want to.”

Carefully, Trailcutter eased his hand back into position. “Is this okay?”

“Heh. I’m not used to people touching me. Except…”

“Except to attack.” Trailcutter sighed. Sometimes the despair in the universe threatened to overwhelm him. There were so many people doing so many awful things to so many others…why? For what?

But then Trailcutter felt something brushing against his other hand. He looked down to see steel-grey fingertips against his. He looked up to see Megatron looking at him questioningly. Megatron. The mech who knew a hundred ways to kill you with his hands, cautiously attempting the smallest gesture of kindness, so hesitantly, so tentatively.

Trailcutter smiled and curled his fingers around Megatron’s. This time he was ready when Megatron froze, then relaxed into the touch.

“I, ah, I do kind of want one more thing,” Trailcutter added.

Megatron raised an optic ridge.

“I want to read your book,” Trailcutter said shyly.

“ _Towards Peace_?” Megatron sighed. “I’ve got three unedited chapters and another nine sections of rough notes. Good luck making any sense out of that mess, and…”

“Well, maybe I should start with the first one. You know. The original version.”

Megatron snorted. “That one’s caused more than its share of problems.”

“Maybe, but so did the Functionists, right? I mean, you’re not sorry you stood up for people, are you? You shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be sorry for that.”

Megatron sighed. “I’m still trying to work out where it…where I…how we all ended up here.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Trailcutter offered. “You know. After I read it?”

Megatron looked back at him. “You’d want to discuss it?”  
“Sure. I mean, I’m no political scholar, but if you want to talk about it…”

“Yes,” Megatron said slowly. “I think I’d like that.” He glanced back over his shoulder at his desk. “I’ve got a datapad version here. It’s got that awful speech tacked on the end…you do know Optimus wrote that, didn’t you? He wrote that and made me read it.”

Trailcutter hadn’t known that, but he nodded anyway. It seemed to be a sore point for Megatron. Trailcutter realized that he wasn’t afraid of making Megatron angry this time. He just didn’t want to see Megatron hurt.

And while one part of him—the Autobot part—scoffed at the irony of that statement, a bigger part of him realized that so much of the war had been about people hurting. Maybe if someone had reached out to the Decepticons—or rather, to the poor and disenfranchised mechanisms who eventually became the bulk of the Decepticon army—there wouldn’t have been a war. Maybe the problem could have been fixed before so many mechs agreed that war was the best—or only—solution. It seemed to Trailcutter that the best way to start again would be to learn from those mistakes.

“Thank you,” Trailcutter said, as he accepted Megatron’s gift.

For a while, they stood looking at each other. Megatron didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to show Trailcutter out, either. Trailcutter realized, with growing surprise, that Megatron appeared reluctant to return to his solitary ruminations.

Solitary. Of course. Nobody on the _Lost Light_ socialized with Megatron when they could help it. It was understandable: some had grudges, some were afraid. But it also didn’t give Megatron much of an incentive to change. If he didn’t feel he belonged with the Autobots, he’d invariably go somewhere else.

The solution to both of their problems seemed to be looking right back at them.

“Would you,” Trailcutter said slowly. “I mean…if you’re not busy…I heard…” He took a deep breath, blurted it out. “I heard the Manifesto is better listened to. Like the speech it originally was.”

Megatron startled, looked at the floor, and murmured, “I’d rather read you the poetry.”

Trailcutter was no literary student, but that really wasn’t the point. He was pretty sure Megatron wasn’t expecting critical analysis of his poetry. “Okay.”

“I don’t have another chair.”

“I’ve sat on your berth before.” Trailcutter grinned.

Megatron smiled hesitantly.

The speech was stirring, genuinely moving, delivered with all the rousing oratory that Trailcutter could have expected. The poetry was a much softer affair, murmured in his audio in gentle rhythms, the two of them sitting side by side on the berth.

Trailcutter was no literary student, but he still liked the poetry best.


End file.
